‘What is it?’ she asks herself as much as the dog. ‘What am I supposed to do with … this?’ She flicks her right hand outward as she speaks and a burst of something invisible yet tangible flies from it, a pulsating wobble through the bright air. It connects with the holly bush, causing every flake of snow on it to explode into a million white crystals before they melt into nothing. The little plant stands out oddly, its prickly leaves glossy and green amid the whiteness. Tilda tries again. This time she carefully waves her hand at the garden bench. Although she stands three long strides from it, it is as if she is sweeping it clear of snow with a heated broom. In seconds the worn wood is exposed, and the snow at its base recedes to reveal the yellow-green grass of the lawn.

Tilda laughs, self-consciously at first, and then joyfully; a wild, visceral sound. Thistle reacts to the break in the tension and bounds about the garden, chasing the clumps of snow Tilda now flicks off the cottage roof, leaping at the showers of ice she causes to rain down from the branches of the apple tree, biting at the dozens of snowballs she hurls through the air without moving a single step from where she stands. Using nothing but the magic that fills her to the brim. Reveling in the warmth and the joy of it. Laughing through it all, happier and more complete than she has been in a very, very long time.

*   *   *

Christmas morning sees a cheerful sun lifting over the hill behind the cottage, its rays bouncing off the crisp layer of snow that still coats the landscape. Tilda can no longer put off leaving. She picks up the bracelet and slips it into her fleece pocket, zipping it in securely, enjoying the thrill of having it close again. Since the success of wearing it in the garden she has put it on twice more, both times outside, each time gaining a little more control, becoming a little braver, discovering more ways to use the wonderful, inexplicable changes it brings in her. She cannot bear the thought of going anywhere without it, but she knows she is not ready to tell anyone of how it changes her. Not even Dylan. More than ever she wants to know, needs to know who it belonged to. Where it came from. Why she has it. Why it releases what it does from somewhere deep inside her that she never knew existed.